David Robbins - Boston Run

Coming through the glass doors were four soldiers. The foremost trooper opened fire the instant he stepped into the sunshine.

Blade threw himself to the left and bruised his elbows on the concrete when he landed. A hail of lead zipped through the space he’d just occupied and pinged into a car parked at the curb. He tilted the AK-47 upward and cut loose. Hit in the torso and flung rearward, the foremost trooper smashed into the glass doors and dropped.

Undaunted, the three remaining soldiers joined in the battle.

Blade knew they would slay him within seconds if he stayed put, so he moved, he moved to the right, reversing direction, rolling over and over, keeping his body always on the go. If he stopped he was dead. So he rolled and rolled with the bullets striking the sidewalk all around him until he came to the end of the steps and a stone wall three feet in height temporarily sheltered him from the troopers. He rose to his knees, astonished he didn’t have so much as a scratch, and aimed at the three soldiers, who were rushing down the stairs toward the wall. One of them snapped off a few hasty rounds, and then Blade fired a sustained burst, sweeping the AK-47 from right to left, mowing the trio down. They thrashed and convulsed as the rounds perforated their bodies, and one of them vented a scream of primal terror at his demise.

Move! Blade’s mind urged.

The Warrior rose and stepped to the curb. The flashing red light to the north was much nearer. He scanned the cars and trucks in the street, most of which had braked, the drivers regarding him in horror as if he was some kind of monster.

A yellow vehicle caught his eye.

Twenty-five feet to the south, stuck between a cement truck, was a bright yellow car, looking as if it had been recently washed and waxed. On the doors were the words YELLOW CAB, on the roof a plastic sign bearing the word TAXI. The vehicle attracted Blade’s attention for three reasons.

First, there was only one occupant, a portly man behind the wheel.

Second, the yellow car was somewhat smaller than most of the cars in sight. Third, and most important, eight feet separated the cement truck from the taxi.

More than enough space.

Blade ran to the south, then cut between the cab and the black sedan behind it. He walked warily to the driver’s door and poked the barrel of the AK-47 in the open window. “Out of the car,” he commanded.

The heavyset driver, who had been about to talk into a square microphone in his right hand, looked around and gasped. His jowly features quivered and his brown eyes became four times their normal size.

“What?” he asked in disbelief.

“Out of the car,” Blade repeated.

“What for?” the driver asked anxiously.

Blade yanked the door open. “I don’t have time to explain. Out. Now.”

To his surprise, the man mustered the courage to refuse.

“No way, mister. This is a company cab. If you wreck it, they’ll dock my pay. I’ve got six mouths to feed.”

The Warrior glanced to the north. The red light was several hundred yards off.

“So go ahead and shoot,” the taxi driver was saying. “Or pound me to a pulp if you want. But I’m not turning this cab over to you.”

Blade frowned and moved to haul the man from the cab.

“I can drive you wherever you need to go,” the driver said quickly. “I can always tell the police you forced me to take you.”

“Drive me?” the Warrior stated, and the idea appealed to him. He slammed the door shut and dashed around the front of the cab, the AK-47 trained on the driver with every stride, and slid in the passenger side.

The man licked his thick lips and blanched. “What are you doing?”

“You wanted to drive,” Blade said. “Start driving.”

“Me and my big mouth,” the man muttered. He slid the microphone into a slot on the dash and looked at the cement truck. “Where am I supposed to go? The traffic is standing still.”

“Use the sidewalk.”

“The sidewalk? You’re kidding.”

Blade jammed the barrel into the man’s side to demonstrate his sincerity.

“Okay. Okay. I can take a hint,” the driver declared, and smiled wanly.

“My name is Harold. What’s yours?”

“Drive,” Blade ordered harshly.

“Anyone ever tell you that you have a one-track mind?” Harold asked.

The AK-47 dug deeper into his ribs. He looked down, gulped, and pressed on the gas, angling the cab to the right, onto the sidewalk, the tires bumping over the curb. He drove between the cement truck on the left and a wall on the right, the cab barely negotiating the narrow gap. Ahead were more vehicles, eight or nine, stopped in the street, the drivers all staring back at the hospital. Pedestrians on the sidewalk scurried for cover.

Blade spied an alley on his side, less than 50 feet off. “Into the alley.”

“It’s one way. It’s illegal to enter from this direction.”

“The alley!”

Harold glanced at the giant. “Hey, you want to go down the alley, we’ll go down the damn alley. I learned a long time ago not to mess with guys who can bench-press a skyscraper.”

“You wouldn’t let me take the cab,” Blade noted, constantly scrutinizing the street, the sidewalk, and the nearby buildings.

“I told you why. If you damage this cab, the bastards will make me pay for the damages. I can hardly feed my family as it is. If they take any more money out of my pay, we’ll be out on the streets.”

“You’re devoted to your family?”

“Sure. Why the hell wouldn’t I be?”

“Die-hard communists don’t believe in the sanctity of the family,” Blade mentioned to test the driver’s loyalties. “Karl Marx wanted the family abolished.”

Harold’s lips compressed. He concentrated on the alley, and waited until he performed the turn before responding. “I can’t believe you’re a KGB agent.”

“I’m not.”

“You never know. The bastards are everywhere,” Harold stated.

“I get that impression.”

“You don’t look like a run-of-the-mill criminal,” Harold mentioned.

“I’m not.”

“Who are you? Where are you from?”

“I’m from outside the Soviet territory.”

“Outside!” Harold exclaimed, flabbergasted. In his excitement he inadvertently caused the cab to swerve to the left, almost colliding with the rear wall of a brick building.

“How long have you been driving?” Blade quipped, hoping the conversation might help the man to relax. His goal would be achieved much sooner if he could persuade Harold to assist him, wittingly or not.

“Are you really from the Outlands?”

“I never said the Outlands. I’m from outside the Soviet-controlled territory. That’s all I can tell you.”

“I’ll be damned,” Harold said. He braked as they came to the end of the alley and stared at the intersecting street. “I’ve never met anyone from the outside. All I’ve heard are stories.” A break in the traffic flow permitted him to pull out, and he took a sharp right, nervously scanning the street for police cars. “What’s it like out there?”

“I’ll ask the questions.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“First things first. Do you know where Gorbachev Air Force Base is located?”

“The old Hanscom Air Force Base? Sure. It’s about fifteen, maybe twenty miles from here.”

“Take me there,” Blade directed.

“Okay.”

Blade reached out and tapped the microphone. “What do you use this for?”

“To keep in touch with the dispatcher. If somebody needs a cab, they’ll phone the company and the dispatcher will tell me where to pick up the fare,” Harold explained, and chuckled. “Haven’t you ever ridden in a cab before?” he asked in jest.